The following entries were highly commended in the recent Southern Star writing competition, and are here for your enjoyment.
Curse of the Sun
By Mary McCarthy, Bantry
Sweat slips between my skin and the rubbery fabric of my coat, chafing all over. The sun is burning brands of every stitch into my skin. This polyester prison will only hold me for a little longer. Soon I’ll be free.
Walking into the park I see shaded eyes and shining smiles everywhere.
Nothing brings the punters to the park like the sun in London. The excitement makes me taut against my bodily covering. I’m bursting to get out. Sunglasses leave me uncertain whether anybody is following my progress. Some might questions a man in a long coat on a hot day, but they’re more likely to dismiss me as a beggar or a leper. Not for much longer.
I slip from the grey of the path to the green of the grass. Now it’s just a matter of finding the right spot. Snaking through chattering circles of bodies I see a spectrum of faces at different stages of sun and alcohol induced merriment. It’s finally my time to join them, the laid-back leisurely Londoners. It’s been so long. Where all the footpaths converge, I stop. Here I’ll get most sets of eyes on me, from the walkers and the sitters.
I’m primed. I grab two fistfuls of my coat. I look for a face. There, the old couple eating ice cream on the bench. I yell wordlessly straight at my target septuagenarians. Faces whip round at me. I pull my hands apart. The coat pops open.
I’m free.
Blink
By Stephen O’Leary, Kinsale
I tell him to try again. This time we’ll get it.
We don’t.
I close my eyes hard, then open them wide. Ready. But the burst of light is violent, and once more my eyelids snap shut in self-defence.
The photographer shows her what he has so far. She nods at some, shakes her head at most. She needs the perfect moment. She needs my eyes open. I’d rather be anywhere else, writing my next story, but I’m here for her, awaiting our next command.
We try something different. Legs interlocked, face to face. The eyes have it. Can I describe her eyes without cliché? I avoid clichés like the plague. Deep blue oceans? No, not a deep blue. Shallow blue? That has some unwelcome connotations.
I consider those oceans. My own are full to the brim, the next inevitable blink sure to send a wave of tears rolling down my cheek. Hers are dry, the tears already cried out.
I’m doing this for her. I would do anything for her.
The photographer is ready again. I will keep my eyes open. I’ll focus only on her. I would do anything for her.
The flash comes.
I’m staring into the brilliant and brutal white of the screen. A blank page. No words. The story is already written, and the final tear rolls down. She wanted the perfect moment, but the moment passed.
She wanted a photograph.
I blinked.
